Sincerely, Yours
by JeSuisUnePomme
Summary: "I am a lover of all things art – beauty, passion, romance. The moment I stepped into that gallery I was filled with the sensation of just the opposite – the world was not always pretty, while there was clearly passion in the art, it was filled with melancholy and heartbreak." FrUk. Present day, human AU. One-Shot.


**AN:** This was written for the "FrUk Loving You Through Time" event on Tumblr. Happy endings vs tragedies with a reincarnation concept. Each author was assigned a period of time and either to write a happy ending or a tragedy. This is my piece for the Present Day. We were encouraged to use real events in history. Please see the end of the story for further notes.  
-Apple

* * *

I am not sure what drew me into the little gallery on the corner next to the coffee shop.

I am a lover of all things art – beauty, passion, romance. The moment I stepped into that gallery I was filled with the sensation of just the opposite – the world was not always pretty, while there was clearly passion in the art, it was filled with melancholy and heartbreak.

There art was a collection of pencil sketches of landscapes, of rolling hills and cloudy skies, rainy days, a small, stone church next to a bell tower. There was a rough sketch of the inside of a church with stained glass windows, the sunlight streaming in, pooling around the empty chairs in front of a lonely altar.

All of the drawings, while stunning, left me feeling empty, sad, and longing for colour.

I almost left the gallery, but a drawing unlike the rest drew my attention away from my escape. I walked straight towards it, heart hammering in my chest. It was a pencil drawing of a man sitting in a wooden chair by a window with sheer curtains moving in an invisible breeze. He had long, light coloured hair tied in a low ponytail at the nape of his neck, his hair spilling over one of his shoulders – not unlike my own. His face was featureless, impressions shaded out where eyes, nose, and a mouth would be. He was reclining, a cigarette loose in one of his hands, the smoke curling around him.

I felt such a powerful sense of familiarity, like I was looking at a portrait of someone I knew well, but I could not put my finger on it. Did I know this artist?

I turned, searching the small gallery for anyone I could ask about – I turned back to the drawing, searching out the artist tag.

' _The Man – Arthur Kirkland_ '

I looked back up and approached a young girl reading a novel behind a small counter near the door. I fished out my dictionary.

"Ahm, _pardon_ ," she looked up, only lowering her book a fraction, showing her displeasure at the interruption. " _D_ _é_ _sol_ _é_ , Arthur Kirkland," I motioned towards the picture, then flipped through my dictionary , searching for words to help me convey what I wanted to ask. Not finding much, my fingers fumbling with the pages in a rush of nerves. "Here?" I asked simply, hoping she understood.

She quirked an eyebrow and said something in English, I struggled to understand her fast pace of speech, English is such an ugly language. She stopped talking, looking confused.

"Arthur Kirkland," I tried again, "here?" I pointed to the floor. " _Monsieur_ Kirkland _est_ here?" The expression of comprehension flooded her face as she understood what I was asking and nodded, forcing a smile. She put her book down and made a motion with her hands, asking me to wait. She left me standing alone in the small gallery, surrounded by silence and sadness, disappearing into a door at the back of the gallery.

I was not made to wait for very long, she reappeared again with a rather grumpy looking fellow trailing behind her. He was wearing a frown and a paint-stained apron that may have been white at some point in its life, but it was hard to tell for sure. His fingers were stained black from charcoal and ink. He needed a haircut, his dirty-blonde hair was almost completely obstructing his eyes, but not so much that it hid the heavy eyebrows drawn down in a frown. His eyes were green, just green, there was nothing special about them; in fact, they seemed quite flat and empty for someone who was supposedly an artist.

"Hello," he said, his voice gruff and without the Canadian accent I had grown accustomed to. He wiped a hand on his jeans before extending it to me to shake. I hesitated a moment, considering their dirty state, but grabbed it when he faltered, flashing him my most charming smile. I was pleased to note the pink colour rise in his cheeks. He said something else, placing his other hand to his chest and saying, "Arthur Kirkland," indicated that was who he was.

" _Je suis_ Francis Bonnefoy," I smiled, gesturing to myself. "This drawing," I said in French, he frowned. I took his hand and led him to 'The Man', pointing to it and asked him, " _qui est-il_?" I saw the confusion in his eyes and I motioned towards the man again, repeating my question, who is he?

"I'm sorry," Mr. Kirkland said, "I don't speak French." I didn't speak English, but I understand enough to get that. I sighed, reaching for my dictionary.

"Who is... man?" I asked after flipping through pages.

Arthur launched into an explanation, I only got, "he is" before he lost me in his fast, accented speech. After a minute of searching his face, hoping I'd understand something he said, he stopped talking and heaved a heavy sigh, rubbing his temples.

"He is," he tried again, shrugging and tapping his forehead.

"Ah, _r_ _ê_ _ve_...?" I turned to flip through my book again, "a dream?" I asked. Mr. Kirkland thought for a moment, seeming unsure of his answer. He said something and then nodded. I made a small noise of understanding, looking back to the picture.

After a moment of silence, I reached toward the drawing, my fingertips only a hairsbreadth away from the surface, sweeping my hand along the length of the man's hair before bringing my hand back to fiddle with my own.

"Like mine, yes?" Mr. Kirkland looked startled, then angry. He held up his hands, talking fast and shaking his head. I smiled to show that I did not mean to offend him, I'm not sure why he looked so angry at the comparison, the drawing _did_ have a sort of striking resemblance to me.

I wanted to ask him if he had any other drawings featuring the strange man, but I did not want to bother searching for the words in my dictionary. That, and, Mr. Kirkland looked rather annoyed at my standing near him. He looked quite handsome when worked up, but I did not want to overstay my welcome.

"I am sorry," I apologized, first in my own language, then stumbling through it in English.

"It was nice to meet you, thank you for your time." I smiled at him and waved. I knew he didn't understand what I had just said to him, but I didn't care. I left the gallery, disappearing into the busy Canadian streets.

.

I'm not sure why I felt so annoyed the moment my eyes fell upon his well-dressed form. He looked vaguely familiar to me, like I may have seen him in passing somewhere in my day-to-day. Did he go to the same Starbucks as me in the morning?

The moment he opened his mouth I knew him to be a tourist, he had a terrible French accent and hardly any grasp of the English language. His hand was warm over mine as he pulled me to my drawing of the faceless man. Almost immediately I felt my stomach go cold. He asked me who he was, my brain already piecing together the striking similarities.

With a language barrier, I could not find a way to describe to him that he was the figure of several recurring dreams I'd had throughout my life – not all of them pleasant and not all of them in times or places I recognized. Mostly, all I dreamed was the sense of familiarity, comfort, and hazy features I could never quite seem to remember, no matter how hard I tried to commit my dreams to paper. The moment I tried, any memory of my dreams would escape me, like trying to describe the colour of the sky to a blind person. It had taken me the majority of a year to even finish the drawing in its current state.

I could never get the face quite right and had eventually given up, resulting in the framed piece on the wall. It terrified me to admit that he seemed to have a resemblance to the drawn figure I had struggled to portray. The moment he pointed out the similarities in the hair I felt anger bubble up inside me.

It had taken me so long to get that drawing out, finally satisfied enough to call it complete; then, he had to waltz in here from the streets, a stranger, with a face that suited the drawing perfectly. If I were to sketch his face in the empty space, I knew it would fit there like it had been him I was drawing all along. It was almost a cruel joke.

And I was almost sad to see him leave.

Who was he? Where did he come from? Why did he feel so familiar, despite my being certain we had never met before? I would have remembered a face like that, a voice like that.

I had half a mind to chase after him before my little sister put her hand on my elbow, bringing my reeling mind back to to the present.

"Who was that?" she asked, eyes darting towards my drawing, no doubt also sensing the eerie familiarity.

"Just some guy," I said, dropping my hand to her shoulder, giving her a forced smile.

I returned to my studio to look at my easel, a full length sketch of a long-haired figure roughed out in the centre. I ripped the page away from its binding and crumpled it up.

After that strange encounter I could not shake the image of the blonde man from my mind. He seemed to be etched into the backs of my eyelids. I'd imagine him while I was awake, and see him as clearly as if he were standing in front of me while my eyes were closed.

There was only one place I could think of to go to escape, one place I knew I could count on for peace and quiet.

I left the gallery to my sister on Sunday, got into my rusting car and drove, leaving the city limits in my rear-view mirror. I've never been so relieved to see the tall buildings melt away behind me, replaced by towering trees.

Westminster Abbey.

Nothing like the Abbey in my home country, which I had only had the pleasure of visiting once in my life, but every bit as peaceful. The church was small in comparison, but the stained glass windows and chiseled artwork along the walls were breathtaking. The grounds were well maintained, with trails open to the public to meander along, eventually winding their way to a lookout. The valley opened up like a clam at your feet, the Fraser River snaking through a patchwork quilt of farmland and curling around the mountains. Mount Baker poked her head up over the hills, year-round snow blinding you as you stood on the edge of that small corner of the world.

I had grown up in Canada, but my mother remembered her homeland. She'd take Lizzie and I to the Abbey on weekends for a picnic, to escape the roar of the city and be somewhere almost familiar. In the summers we would spend our Sundays sitting on an old blanket at the bottom of the little hill, beside Mary Lake, and watch the clouds drift by. Sometimes we would tell silly stories, other times we were content sitting in silence, sometimes a Monk would be sitting nearby, head bowed in prayer. In the winters we would sit inside the church, our mother shushing us, as we watched the light from the stained glass windows paint the creamy, stony faces of the Saints up on the walls in a kaleidoscope of colour.

Now that I was grown, I did not visit the Abbey as often as I had in my youth, but it was still a special place to me. It's where I go when I need to think, to be alone, to process. It's comforting, like going back home. I needed something soothing, something real.

I brought my notebook with me.

Instead of sitting in the church, or strolling down the grassy hill and past the small cemetery to Mary Lake, I took to the path, turning towards what I knew was a dead end. At the end of the trail there was a pile of foliage in a burn pile, I walked around this and over a sagging barbed-wire fence and off the monastery property. I enjoyed the sound of the tall grass hissing against my shins as I walked towards my tree and fell against it, sitting down and opening my notepad in my lap.

 _'Dearest mother',_ I wrote, beginning to compose a letter.

 _'Sometimes it hits me how long it's been since I've actually seen your face. I'm sorry it's been so long since I last wrote to you... I guess I got wrapped up in life._

 _I hope you're well wherever you are. Lizzie and I miss you terribly; at least, I assume she does. We don't often talk about deep, emotional things, even now with both of us having grown up. I know you so desperately wanted us to be close as brother and sister... I suppose we are just too different. Sometimes I wonder if she remembers you as clearly as I do – probably not. She was so young when you left us._

 _You'd be proud of your Elizabeth. She's grown into a beautiful and capable young woman. I fear for the day that she brings home her first boyfriend. I don't think anyone will be good enough for her. We may not be close, but she is still my baby sister, and I would protect her from anything if I could. Tragedy, heartbreak, I never want her to feel the bitterness of a broken heart. I know I cant shield her forever, but I am determined to try... I wonder if she knows how much I love her. I don't often say it aloud. We seem to argue more than tell each other such sweet things._

 _Lizzie is helping me a lot lately in the gallery. I enjoy being able to keep an eye on her after her school hours, but she can be such a bother. She's wonderful with the customers, selling what few paintings I'll part with, but shes not very personable._

 _I can hear you laughing at me as I write that._

 _'Little Artie,' you'd say, 'you are the prickliest pear I know!' Yes, yes, I suppose I am. I don't know why, though. I don't mean to be. Lizzie was never supposed to be like that. I apologize, she's been around me too much, I suppose. As a young girl she always had an easy smile and no fear of strangers._

 _Speaking of strangers, I met the mos peculiar person the other afternoon – you would have liked him immediately, he was French. He seemed oddly interested by one of my drawings, but the blooming idiot barely spoke a drop of English. Yes, I know, I'm being too harsh. But, mother, this is Canada in the 21st century. Who doesn't know how to speak English? At least a little bit. He had one of those ridiculous dictionaries with him, but barely cracked it open in an attempt to convey what he was trying to say._

 _He seemed to think one of my drawings featured him – I will admit that there was a striking resemblance, but I know for a fact that I have never seen him before. I'd remember eyes like that. They reminded me of the sky in an early summer morning before the heat sets in. See? I can say kind things about annoying, French strangers._

 _I do sort of wish that I had let you teach me French as a child. I-_ '

My writing was interrupted by a cheery greeting from somewhere behind me. A shiver ran down my spine and my heart began to drum dangerously loud – part in shock, part in some other unidentifiable emotion.

" _Bonjour_!" I twisted to look behind me and the strange Frenchman from my gallery was carefully picking his way over the nearly-collapsed barbed wire fence and making his way over to me.

"What are you doing?" he only smiled at me as he continued to glide over the grass towards me. "This is private property! You can't be here!" never mind that I was also trespassing on some farmer's field. The only thing I had ever seen of said farmer, however, was a handful of cows that sometimes wandered close to the tree I liked to sit under. "This isn't part of the monastery grounds," I feebly tried to warn him off as he came to sit down next to me, still smiling. "The trail to the lookout is back there," I pointed and he followed my finger before meeting my gaze again, no hint of understanding in his glittering eyes. I heaved a sigh and gave up. What were the chances of meeting him again? And in such a place as this?

He settled against the tree at our backs and sighed happily, drinking in the landscape. We were sitting on the crest of a hill, the field rolling away from us and dipping down low in a blanket of fields dotted with trees before gathering into hills in the distance, crowned by dark smudges of trees. In the bowl of the valley a handful of cows grazed. They never seemed to mind me wandering off the park grounds and into their field. They were used to me by now, having been coming to this spot every Sunday for the past couple years – weather permitting, of course.

The Frenchman, Francis, said something in his own language, sweeping his hand across the view before us, those glittering eyes turning back to face me. I could only stare at him. He shrugged and turned back to the scenery, evidently making himself comfortable, planning on staying a while.

I huffed; this was _my_ special spot. Nobody ever invaded my privacy when I came here. This tree and these fields were my quiet place, where I came to think, to talk with my mother when I needed her. He didn't even seem to notice the obvious distress his presence was causing me. I wanted to tell him to kindly 'fuck off' and find his own piece of private property to trespass on, but I knew my words would fall upon deaf ears.

Besides, I tried to tell myself while taking deep, soothing breaths, he wasn't hurting anything. He was just sitting quietly, enjoying the scene – same as me. I could hardly get mad at him for stumbling onto private property when I was doing the same thing.

I found myself unable to tear my eyes away from him. His hair was tied in a loose pony at the base of his neck with a velvety bow. With his profile facing me, I could see how impossibly long his eyelashes were, the afternoon sun streaming through them and setting his eyes ablaze. The expression on his face was completely relaxed, his smile had faded, but he did not look sad or angry, simply at peace. He looked like the type of person who smiled every day and had never known a day of sadness. As someone who had a fairly bitter last few years, this filled me with a certain sour frustration.

I wondered what he was thinking about... I quickly looked away when his eyes flicked up to briefly meet mine in a sideways glance. He chuckled as I fumbled with my notepad and pen. He said nothing.

' _Mother_ ,' I continued my letter, ' _you will never believe what has just happened. If you were sitting beside me at this moment you would no doubt be laughing at my horrible luck. Oh, how fate seems to eternally enjoy thrusting me into strange situations! The very Frenchman I was just telling you about just sat down next to me. Since you are not immediately at my side, then I should make it known that I am writing to you from under a tree in a farmer's field off the trail at Westminster Abbey. The particular bit of trail at this field is at the end of a dead-end and doesn't lead anywhere. Not many people happen to this corner of the park... How on Earth had he come to be here of all places? And in this part of the country? Last I saw him was in downtown Vancouver! We are almost 80 kilometers away-'_

I was interrupted once again as the Frenchman leaned over my shoulder, eyeing my writing. I quickly covered it with my hands and shoved him away with my shoulder. He only laughed. It reminded me of music and a blush warmed my face as my heart-rate sped up. He looked like he wanted to say something to me, words barely forming on his lips, but no voice accompanied them.

" _Vous est belle_ ," he said at last and my heart nearly burst out of my chest. I did not know much French, but that sounded dangerously close to a flirtatious compliment – and nobody ever flirts or compliments _me_. I cleared my throat and peeled my eyes away from his, nodding at the landscape before us.

"It is," I said, "This is one of my favorite places." I wondered if he understood what I said. I felt his eyes boring holes into the side of my face before finally releasing me from their strange, paralytic spell as he looked out across the fields once more.

.

I never expected to run into Arthur Kirkland, of all people, so far from the main city.

I was craving a secluded, country feeling to escape the noise of the city. As much as cities were enjoyable and full of life, the crowds and tall buildings often leave me feeling suffocated. Someone had told me in passing in halting English and mis-pronounced French of the little gem of beautifully maintained grounds and charming Catholic church. I had been lost in myself, wandering aimlessly along the trails when I spotted the familiar mop of dirty-blonde hair. I had come to a dead-end and had almost turned to walk back when I noticed him sitting under an oak tree, madly scribbling on a notepad in his lap.

What on earth was he doing all the way out here? He could not be one of the monks or students of the seminary – he did not strike me as the type to be Catholic, or even remotely religious – although, how I had formed that opinion after only a brief meeting I am unsure.

I decided to join him, despite his obvious discomfort. He did not clearly demand my departure, other than rambling a bit in a language I did not understand, as I settled on the ground next to him.

I could not shake the unmistakable feeling that I knew him from somewhere. We had never met before, I would have remembered eyebrows like that. But, I felt oddly at home sitting next to him. A feeling that I had not experienced for many years, or even at all upon further and honest reflection. It was a feeling I had so desperately searched for my whole life and never expected to find in a grumpy Brit.

I sighed in contentment. The scenery and break from the city air was exactly what I needed and it was so peaceful. I could feel my muscles relaxing and I felt like I was blissfully melting into the ground where I sat. I welcomed the sensation. I wouldn't mind dissolving into a place like this, a place still untouched by the scars of development, a place where prayers went up into the sky. It was hard not to feel like I was sitting at God's ear right there, where even whispered thoughts would be heard by Him. It was perfect.

I told him he was beautiful. While I knew I meant it, I couldn't be sure if I was telling him or if it had accidentally slipped past my lips in thought. He knew what I said, I could tell by the blush that lit up his face like a bulb in a darkened room. He waved it off, eyes gesturing to the landscape before us, like that was what I had been commenting on.

I've never had such a desire to learn English before that moment. English, the language that felt like it was going to close my throat up and asphyxiate me. It was such an ugly language, yet, I desired nothing more than to know it, to communicate with the man that sat next to me.

.

 _'Dear mum,_

 _That crazy Frenchman came again to my spot this weekend. Two weeks in a row now! I hope this doesn't become some sort of strange habit. I may need to find a new quiet spot if he continues to appear. And I like this spot so very much. I'd be quite put out if I couldn't come back._

 _Although, there's no way this intrusion of privacy could become a permanent fixture. He must be a tourist of some sort. There's no way he lives here without speaking English._

 _Which reminds me, he brought with him his silly French-English dictionary and, surprisingly, he greeted me with a clear, "_ hello, good morning, how are you today? _" I should probably take this opportunity to confess that I took a few minutes here and there to learn a handful of French words throughout the week. Not for any particular reason, of course, just in case I ran into him again. Not that I was hoping for such a scenario, just anticipating after the recent string of luck I've been dealt recently regarding the Frenchman. Also, learning some French words should make our next interaction that much easier since he had previously seemed determined not to learn English._

 _Anyway, he greeted me in my respected language, so it would only be polite if I did the same, and I was very glad that I had the ability._

"Bonjour _," I said, "_ ça va. Et tu _?" Mother, you should have seen the way his eyes lit up with these few, halting and likely mispronounced words. He began to babble in French and I was terribly lost. He calmed himself eventually, the shine in his eyes, though, stayed with him for the remainder of the afternoon._

 _I cannot say we had a pleasant conversation. We exchanged only a handful of understood words between bouts of confusion and mistranslations. But, I suppose it was pleasant overall. Perhaps I will try to learn some more French so we can converse easier. Just in case we run into each other again._

 _-Sincerely yours, Arthur_

.

It was raining on the third weekend. The whole drive to the little monastery I wondered if Arthur would even be there during such miserable weather. I saw his car as I pulled up to the low collection of buildings next to the church and bell tower. I half-ran down the path, hands over my head, having forgotten my umbrella back in my motel room.

My heart jumped into my throat the moment I saw the dome of his black umbrella. I approached, careful while going over the sagging barbed-wire fence, my face splitting into a grin. I did not bother to disguise the elation in my face as he turned and scowled at me. I carefully made my way to him, my hair must have looked dreadful, dripping into my eyes, wild and tangled. Normally, I would have been angry at this, now, I did not seem to care.

"Hello, good afternoon," I said, my mouth no longer tripping over the foreign words. "How are you today? It is raining!" He looked like he might have laughed at me, he quickly hid his chuckle through a polite cough.

"I am well," he said in French, "do you have an umbrella?" I shook my head and grinned as he motioned for me to come stand under his. I quickly accepted his offer, letting my fingers curl over his holding on to the handle. His blush was phenomenal and he spluttered a bit, but did not pull away from me.

"Have you been painting this week?" I asked. I blundered over the words, I felt silly, like I was talking with my mouth full of food. He seemed to understand my question though, and he sighed.

"Not as much as-" he spoke in English and too fast, I struggled to follow his train of thought, searching his eyes for some clue as to what he was saying. After a few moments, he noticed my lost expression and chuckled. My heart soared. "No," he said, "not much." I nodded and frowned.

"Why?" I asked in French. I almost corrected myself, but he shrugged, having understood me.

"No inspiration, I suppose."

"Why?" I asked again and he scowled at me. He did not answer, so I danced out into the rain in front of him and struck a pose, "paint me!" I suggested, giggling at his perplexed expression. He seemed like he wanted to say something, but the moment passed before he could get the words out of his mouth. He turned and began walking towards the fence, leaving the property and me in the rain.

"Let's get out of this weather," he said in English, then added in French, "I do not like the rain."

We walked in silence towards the bell tower. We had never gone away from the farmer's field before, and I was excited to see what we were going to do.

We reached the cars and he went to his, removing a satchel and large sketch book from the trunk, then lead me towards one of the buildings, holding the door open for me.

Inside was a large model of the monastery and grounds under a heavy box of glass, complete with miniature trees and gardens. There room was long, several chairs were set up facing outwards towards a wall of windows that looked out on a small garden in the shadow of the bell tower and side of the church. Daisies in the garden bowed under the weight of the rain, like they were praying for the warm, sunny weather to return.

Arthur moved me to sit in one of the chairs and I turned to look out of the windows as he dragged another chair and placed it in front of me.

"Don't move," he said, and I struggled to keep the grin from splitting my face right in two. He opened his sketchbook and began to draw.

.

 _'Dear mum,_

 _I drew him, mother. And since that first pencil sketch in the foyer of the visitor building at the monastery I've not been able to draw anything else. The oddest thing is that I feel like I'm drawing something familiar. I can draw him from memory. The more I draw or paint, the more inspired I become. I fear he has become my muse. I am most embarrassed to admit how many sketches I already have of him. From that first of him gazing out of the window one lazy Sunday to doing the most normal, tedious things. Recently, I drew him reclining by a roaring fire, another of him doing dishes, asleep on the couch... The more I paint him, the more I think about those dreams I had... I have not had one since meeting him. Is he the subject of my dreams? Is that painting I did all those years ago really of him? It hardly seems plausible, I realize, merely crazy talk. But, it keeps popping up in my head while I lay awake at night._

 _I took that painting out of my gallery and pinned it to my easel. I seem to have developed some harebrained idea to paint in a face – his face. I'm frightened that it will confirm my late-night suspicions. That his face will fit there, that it was meant to be there._

 _Lizzie thinks it is all terribly romantic. She discovered my sketchbook (re: was snooping like a brat) and my collection of a certain Frenchman._

 _It wasn't raining this week and we sat under the oak tree again – I practiced my French and he his English. Even when the bells tolled for afternoon mass we did not stir. Not until the fear of our cars being locked in the grounds overnight did we finally part ways._

 _The more we are able to talk to each other, the more things I can learn about him. For example, he is from Amiens, a town north of Paris. He loves apples, but hates bananas. He makes this horribly twisted face when he sees a banana and produces this little sound in the back of his throat... He is a skilled baker – be borrowed a kitchenette from one of the units where he is staying and made macrons. I am not sure how he convinced the tenant to let him use the oven when his English is so poor. Anyway, they were delicious. He practically exploded with happiness when I told him how much I enjoyed them. He says he is going to bring me more things to try next week and I hate to admit I'm excited at the prospect. I haven't had baked good that didn't come from a Tim Horton's in so long._

 _It's been a month since Francis and I have been meeting at the monastery. Now, I really do wonder when he will have to leave and what he is doing out here in the meantime for money. I asked him, but he didn't say much. He said he is seeing the world and searching for something. What is it he is looking for? He may have tried to tell me, but it was either lost in translation or he's not sure of it himself. I pretended like I understood. I asked him when he has to leave, and he only looked sad. He said, "I will leave when I absolutely must." Whatever that means._

 _Sincerely yours, Arthur'_

.

I could not wait a whole other week before seeing Arthur again. I'm not sure how I would define what it was that begun to flourish between us. Some sort of strange friendship. All I knew was that I craved his presence and a handful of hours stolen on a Sunday was no longer enough.

I appeared back at his gallery, the young woman I had previously met looked at me as I entered the door. It felt like a lifetime ago when I first stepped through those doors and into the sad gallery.

The portrait of the faceless man was no longer hanging in the back of the gallery – had he sold it? It bothered me how upset the idea of it hanging in someone else's house made me. I felt like it was _my_ drawing.

"It's the handsome Frenchman in the flesh!" she said. I understood her words, but her meaning escaped me. English is such a complicated, tricky language. Even if I were to take her words as literal, they didn't make sense to me. That would imply Arthur spoke of me – that he thought I was handsome. My chest fluttered at the prospect.

"Is Arthur Kirkland here today?" I queried and she gave me a wide, toothy grin. I had the sudden sensation that I should, perhaps, feel nervous; about what, I am not sure. I swallowed hard.

"Your English is improving!" she said, "no, not at the moment. He stepped out to get some paint. He should be back soon, though."

"He is painting again?" I asked. He had lost his muse last time I asked him about his art. She nodded and waved towards the door at the back of the gallery. I approached it and hesitated, "may I?" She only shrugged, which I chose to interpret as ' _sure, go ahead_ '.

I pushed open the door and slipped inside.

Once my eyes adjusted to the gloom my breath hitched in my throat. The whole room was filled with pencil sketches, paintings on canvas – some stretched over frames, some hanging by clothespins on string stretched from one corner of the room to the other. There were pastel-coloured drawings and water colour paintings and drawings in flourishes of black ink. They were all of me, every single one. I moved between each piece, admiring the attention to detail. I stopped at a sketch of my face straight on, my lips relaxed into a casual expression of contentment, the corners of my mouth barely turned up in the hint of a smile. My eyes were the only things coloured, and coloured in great detail. He captured the sky, the ocean, a pair of sapphires in those eyes, I could hardly believe that they were supposed to be my own.

"Oh...!" I heard a sound breathed out in surprise and I whirled around to face Arthur, standing in the doorway looking quite perplexed.

I didn't know what to say. My breath was gone from my lungs, my heart had raced out of my chest, my knees were preparing to leave me as well.

"You just have... such a nice face..." Arthur said, clearing his throat. His cheeks were a violent shade of red and those eyes, _his_ eyes, those glittering pools of moss on stones next to a babbling brook, he refused to delight me by raising them to meet my own.

"I am your muse." My voice found its way to my throat and pushed passed my trembling lips. It was not a question. He did not respond for several moments, scratching the back of his neck with a shaking hand and dropping a plastic shopping back filled paints to the floor at his feet.

"I-I guess that's a good way of putting that." I did not fully understand his sentence, but the tone of his voice was one of embarrassed agreement. I was touched, I was _honoured_ , I was blown away by how beautiful he made me seem. His shyness was endearing and I needed to touch him. My knees finally gave out, propelling me forward. I caught myself before falling and stumbled up to him, hands reaching out to brush against his face, finally drawing his gaze up to meet mine. I longed to tell him that I felt like I knew him, like we had met somewhere before, but it was a sensation that I could not explain, especially in a language that still seemed like gibberish to my own ears. I could not tell him what was running through my mind, so I did the only thing I knew that might come close to express the feelings rolling in my stomach.

I kissed him.

I drew his face to mine with the tips of my fingers, he willingly followed, and my lips brushed against his and my eyes fluttered closed. He smelled like acrylic paint and he tasted like artistic oils, but he felt like warm, melted butter under my mouth and he hummed against me, his hands finding their way into my hair. We kissed in a room full of my face and I felt like every other kiss I had ever shared up until that point was meaningless.

.

 _'Dear mum,_

 _Is it possible to fall in love with someone in such a short period of time?_

 _I thought I understood love at this point in my life, I thought I had experienced it._

 _None of it was true, mother. The Goddamn Frenchman is, though. Even with his disgusting language and love for cheese and silly way he flips his hair when he wears it loose. The stupid way his eyes glitter and he flirts with everyone to get his way – even though they don't understand it. But when I roll my eyes he reaches for me and the moment his hand comes into contact with me I dissolve beneath him and nothing else matters. He looks at me and I am undone._

 _My heart breaks when we part and is pieced back together when we are reunited. He kisses me and the rest of the world slides away. I wonder where it goes, sometimes, but it hardly matters, only his lips on mine does. And all too soon the world comes flooding back and I'm left standing, gazing at him and him gazing back and everything smiles._

 _I am terrified for the day our time in the farmer's field will come to and end and he will have to return to France. I am terrified for the day when an ocean and timezones will be between us. I am terrified that I will lay in bed and be unable to sleep because I won't be able to reach out and feel him laying there next to me._

 _Is it possible to fall so in love with a person in such a short amount of time?_

 _It mustn't be. It's happened to me._

 _Yours sincerely, Arthur_ '

.

Summer melted into autumn, and autumn relented to winter.

It was strange attending an art show in a country that was not my own to see pictures of me. The show was called, 'Memories', after the mutual feelings of familiarity between Arthur and I.

Despite how connected we felt, that did not always translate to smooth relationship.

Our first obstacle was obvious: language. We both practiced the other, some days it was fun and light-hearted, others would end in frustration (generally Arthur storming away from me in a fit of rage).

"Why does a thing have to be male or female at all? Why does it have to be so complicated? And _how do you blood know_?"

"You just know, _cher_ ," I'd try to sooth him. This was never the correct way to respond to Arthur and it only fueled his frustrations.

"French is bloody ridiculous!" I wondered if he were just jealous that I was catching on to English faster than he caught on to French. I tried to keep this to myself, of course, otherwise he'd give up learning French entirely and then I'd have to speak like there was cotton in my mouth for the rest of our time together. I longed to converse with him in a language that rolled off my tongue. Then I could better tell him how I felt, how I saw him, how perfect he was in my eyes... English is not poetic enough to put my feelings into words.

Our second obstacle was our clashing personalities. I don't think I need to say more than we argue more often than not, but it always ends with one of us pressed against the wall, clothing quickly peeled away. Is that really a problem, then? I end my days wrapped around the man I love, both our lips pulled in blissful smiles.

No, that's not an obstacle. Our second major obstacle is... well, potential distance. I am not Canadian, and Arthur is not French. I'm sure we will work these things out sooner or later. We will cross that bridge only when it is before us and not sooner.

I tugged my scarf away from my face as I entered the coffee shop that was displaying Arthur's collection of work. The artist himself gravitated to my side the moment the bells rang, announcing my arrival.

"You're late, frog," he greeted most lovingly while placing a quick peck to my check. He was very careful with showing affection in public, especially while 'working'. He was not ashamed to be dating another man, but preferred to keep our relationship private. I tried to understand this, but I so desperately wanted to sweep him up into my arms, dip him low, and press my lips firm to his in a fit of passion.

His art was well received; I had several strangers approach me and compliment my bone structure or to see for themselves if my eyes really did look like they held entire oceans. I smiled and did my best to entertain, often slipping between moments of understanding and being too lost when they spoke too quickly. When the end of the evening rolled around, I played the foreign visitor card and simply pretended I did not understand any English. I was left alone to nurse a cup of tea (I pretended it was wine) while I watched Arthur meet with people admiring his work.

He sold a few pieces and was commissioned for others. It was odd watching a stranger walk out of the shop, receipt in hand, the promise that my face would be hanging on their wall once the display was concluded. I was going to be seeing the world in an unexpected way. It was both terrifyingly strange and thrilling all at once.

.

' _Dear mum,_

 _Francis' Visa will expire soon. I can hardly believe that it's been another year. Time seems to fly by with him._

 _He's such an asshole._

 _I love him terribly._

 _Yours sincerely, Arthur_ '

.

Arthur embraced me like it was the last time he was going to see me in front of the departures at the Vancouver International Airport. I buried my face in his neck and breathed him in, committing to memory what I'd already memorized: the smell of oil pastels, ink, paint, varnish. The undercurrents of black tea and bergamot, burnt scones, my macrons, woodsy aftershave. He smelled like plaid quilts and warm summer evenings and candle-lit dinners at midnight. He smelled like slow kisses, tangled limbs and sheets and the heat from love, the contented sigh and the trailing of a fingertip to a bare chest. He smelled like Arthur.

I kissed his neck, his jaw, his cheek, his temple, his forehead, down his nose, and finally, I pressed my lips to his. He did not pull away and scowl, offering up a lecture about public displays of affection. No, today, my Arthur melted into me and kissed me back like he meant it. It was not erotic, but loving and tender and slow. The kiss was one of sorrow and promise and longing.

"When will I see you again?" he choked when I finally pulled away, smoothing his hair from his eyes. He needed another goddamn haircut.

"Soon, _mon_ _r_ _âl_ _eur_ ," my grumpy British-Canadian. I chuckled as he smacked me lightly on the chest. "I will call you as soon as I arrive in Spain." I kissed him again as the intercom called for my plane to board.

The plan was to visit one of my dear friend in Barcelona for his wedding. It could not have happened at a more convenient time, with my Visa in Canada running out. I would stay in Spain for a week before flying back to France (with a brief layover in Düsseldorf), stopping in Paris to see one of my aunts who was desperate for my company, then home. Once there I would begin to prepare for my dearest artist to visit me.

He was not happy about the plans to go to France, but he considered it was only fair. I suggested it would give him the opportunity to see his muse in his natural habitat. He would love France, I knew he would, he just had to give it a chance.

He would arrive in June and stay until he absolutely had to leave – his gallery would be tended by his little sister who was insistent that she could handle herself while he was away. I am of the mind that a little independence for teenagers is a good thing; Arthur seems to think Elizabeth needed a babysitter at all hours of the day. He didn't have an option of course, I had already bought his plane ticket.

I blew him a kiss before I disappeared from his view, mouthing the words, "I love you." He gave me a shy smile and waved, " _j'taime_ ," he mouthed back.

.

 _'Dear mum,_

 _I wish I could have gone to Spain with Francis._

 _He talks of such beauty and excitement there. Also, I do not know if I like him being in such an passionate place without me to keep an eye on him. His friend Antonio does not seem like the best influence._

 _Of course, I have to consider that perhaps Francis is the poor influence on Antonio..._

 _I can practically hear you laughing. Stop it._

 _Perhaps Francis and I will go to Spain together one day. Actually, that is very likely. His friend is, as he says, 'most eager to meet the man that tied me down.' I don't see why he can't simply come to me, but I suppose it's a good excuse to travel. And, as Francis says, 'take every opportunity presented to you to see the world. You never know what you'll find along the way.' I think he is talking about me when he says this._

 _Anyway, Antonio was married and Francis telephoned while drunk from the reception (the stupid frog, it was 2 am here). He sounded so happy (and so drunk) and began to babble about marriage and he asked me what I thought about it._

 _What do I think about marriage?_

 _I wish you were here to talk to about it. We never really did discuss matters of the heart in that regard. I never knew dad as anything other than the man who helped make me and left you. You were miserable while with him and even more so when he finally disappeared. He was the man who lured you in and broke your heart. I don't want that, I don't want to do that. Not that I see that trait in myself or Francis, but it is still something that keeps me awake at night since Francis mentioned the big 'M' word._

 _I met his questions with silence and I think this upset him, since he very quickly made up an excuse to end the conversation. I tried to smooth things over, but he was too hasty and the call ended after a very brief and somewhat forced-sounding 'I love you'._

 _At least I have some time to think about it more. He will be heading back to France very shortly – I doubt he will have time to call me tomorrow (what with the hangover I'm certain he will be afflicted with) and saying his goodbyes to his friends in Spain._

 _So I will have at least two days of quiet to process. I think I understand love. It makes sense that marriage would be the next topic of conversation. I'm sure the answers I am looking for will come to me if I visit the monastery._

 _Elizabeth and I miss you dearly, I wish you were here to help me untangle these confusing possible life-changes._

 _Yours sincerely, Arthur_ '

.

 _'Dear Mum,_

 _The weather has been usually warm the last few days. It's cooling down now, though._

 _I am writing you from under my oak tree in the farmer's field. It feels almost alien to be here without Francis. I keep thinking I hear him coming or see him out of the corner of my eye. It's been ingrained in my memory that he should be arriving shortly. Isn't it funny how quickly a habit is formed?_

 _Do you remember when I was most upset by his presence? I wanted nothing more than for him to leave me alone. Now I want nothing more than for him to be here pestering me._

 _He texted me yesterday evening to tell me he was boarding his plane. He should already be in Paris by now, but I told him not to bother calling me until he was settled with his aunt. I don't expect a call until tomorrow sometime – maybe this evening because he is ever so impatient._ '

My writing was interrupted in the most familiar way, someone calling out to me. I flinched and first looked behind me – nobody was coming over the sagging fence. In front of me, an old man was hiking his way up the hill.

"You there," he called and I hurried to my feet, brushing off my pants. "This is private property. The monastery grounds are behind you." He pointed and I did not need to follow his finger to know where he was indicating.

"I apologize," I said, acting as if I had no idea all along, "I was just enjoying the view." He nodded, but did not look terribly friendly. I offered another hurried apology before collecting my things and making my way back towards the trail. He watched me as I went, I could feel his eyes boring holes into my spine. I continued walking until I reached the low buildings and bell tower. The chill of the day started to seep through my coat so I moved into the church, sitting in the chair closest to the door and pulled out my notepad to continue writing.

' _Ah, the strangest thing just happened to m_ e,' I wrote, ' _after all these years I finally met the farmer whose fields I've been trespassing on._ ' I paused and tapped my pen against my bottom lip.

I thought I'd feel a lot more sad once I knew I'd be unable to return to my field.

It wasn't my field, though. It never was. I just got to pretend that was so, it was always borrowed time. I sighed and rolled my eyes to the ceiling, imagining I was sitting inside a large, stone waffle.

I did not feel sad about the farmer.

' _I will have to find a new place to call my own now._

 _I also think I've found my response for Francis: I want to marry him. So desperately I want to marry him and promise each other to each other for eternity._

 _I will never love another as I love him. There is no one else for me in the world. Even if I died tomorrow, I know I would awaken in a new life, find my Francis, and we would be together. We are meant to be, and it is greedy for me to hesitate when he offers me this opportunity. In fact, I can't believe I ever hesitated at all._

 _Thanks for listening, mum._

 _Yours sincerely, Arthu_ r'

.

When I finally made it back to my gallery the morning had melted into late afternoon. I had planned on disappearing into my studio to paint – possibly to paint the rolling fields in which I had so recently been ejected from in a sort of tribute. I was expecting Elizabeth to be at home working on homework, not standing in the doorway like a shadow and waiting to pounce on me the moment I crossed the threshold.

"Arthur," she said, her voice cracking. I brushed her off as she tried to cling to my arm.

"Give me a moment, Liz, let me put my things away and pee at least." I tossed my notebook on the small counter by the door; I'd stuff my letter to mum in an envelop before I left to go home later in the evening. She followed me around the gallery like a worried puppy, watching as I flicked the lights on in my studio, arranged my paints, then disappeared into the bathroom.

When I opened the door I had intended on lecturing her for being so weird; it was rude to wait for someone right outside of the loo. But, I bit my tongue when she suddenly broke into racking sobs.

"Lizzie!" I reached for her and pulled her into my chest. She clung to me and rubbed her nose against my shirt, hiccuping.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. I stroked her hair and rubbed her back. She never showed this much emotion.

"That's alright, luv, no need to apologize." She pulled away from me, an expression of terror flicking across her face.

"Arthur," she choked, shaking her head, "it's not me... it's Francis. Oh God, you don't know, yet."

"Know what?"

"The plane crashed."

My world crashed.

.

March to June did not exist for me.

I'm not sure how I ended up in Paris. I barely remembered to eat breakfast every morning, let alone pack a suitcase, gather my passport and plane tickets, and board a flight across the ocean. I vaguely remember Ativan and wine while sitting in the airplane and talking about the weather with my seatmate.

And yet, somehow, I was standing near the Pont des Arts and watching city workers remove the Locks of Love with a crane.

It was bitter symbolism and I did not bother to hide my tears as I sobbed.

Francis and I never spoke of adding a lock to the bridge, but it seemed like something he would have insisted I do while visiting. I couldn't help but wonder if his initials were etched into some of the locks, paired with some other lover in a past romance. Even if he had locked his love to the bridge, it was being destroyed now. I never got a chance, and I was glad for it. It would have broken me all the more to watch my love dismantled, knowing it was going to be melted down.

At least, I thought bitterly, those locks would have a chance for a new life.

' _Dear mum_ ,' I wrote from a cafe.

' _I'm sorry I haven't written in a while._

 _France is beautiful, I can see why you fell in love with it in your youth. The people here are not nearly as bitter and angry as their stereotype suggests._

 _Elizabeth and myself miss you terribly, as always. She told me so herself just the other day. I am happy to report that we seem to have grown closer as brother and sister in the last couple months. I finally told her how much I loved her and she seemed to appreciate the sentiment, no matter how awkwardly it was received. She suggested we write in these little journals every day about things we were thankful for and then read them aloud at the dinner table. Some days it's very hard to think of something to be thankful for, other days it comes to me as easy as holding a pencil and drawing Francis' face._

 _Yesterday I was thankful for sunsets and sunrises and competent pilots. Today I am thankful for fresh baked bread, a good cup of tea, and, oddly, I am thankful for love today._

 _It hurts, being thankful for something like that. Something that can hurt you so terribly. Love is fickle, isn't it? I understand now why you were a mess when dad was around and still a mess after he left. It's never easy when you love someone – although the difficulties are so very different from each other._

 _When you are with someone you love, it's impossible not to look at them and sigh. It's hard not to reach out and touch them, to hold yourself back when in public. It's difficult to imagine a life without them. When you are with the one you love, it's hard to cope when they hurt you – intentional or not. It's hard to recognize that they are not perfect, that they have faults. How can one be thankful for an emotion that blinds you with your own affection?_

 _When you are apart from your love, it's hard not to long for them forever. I still wake up in a sweat in the middle of the night and reaching out beside me. My heart freezes in my chest when I am met with cool emptiness and my hand finds nothing to grasp but bedsheets in the dark. It's difficult to find things to be thankful for when you can hardly convince yourself to get out of bed in the morning._

 _Elizabeth seems to think we should get a dog._

 _I don't want a dog. I'll be the one who will end up taking care of it._

 _I still have not checked in to my hotel here in Paris. I should probably feel more foolish, hauling a suitcase around with me through the streets in the city of love._

 _I will find my hotel, I will have a lovely nap, then I will venture out again to find a little piece of quiet in which to call my own and relax. I will write more when I find this place and describe it to you in minute detail._

 _I wonder what I will find while I am here._

 _I know in my heart that you are well._

 _Give Francis my love,_

 _Sincerely yours, Arthur'_

 _-fin-_

* * *

 **Note:** Germanwings flight from Barcelona to Dusseldorf crashed in the French alps on March 24, 2015. (There were no French citizens on board this flight in actual events)

The Locks of Love were removed from the Pont des Arts on June 1, 2015. (It is my impression that French people were quite happy that the locks were removed, as they proved to be a hazard for the bridge; however, it is such a terribly sentimental, sappy, and touristy thing to do, I imagine Francis would have encouraged Arthur to take part)

Arthur's mother had passed away several years ago; he wrote her letters as a way to cope with this grief. He put them in envelopes and addressed them, then saved them in a box under his bed.

Elizabeth is his sister and entirely my own character, and not a Nyo! version of England. I really am in love with the idea of him having a younger sister (you'll see her pop up my FrUk/FACE story Life & Style)

Westminster Abbey is a real place in British Columbia, and one that I visited frequently while growing up (and still do go visit as often as I can now!) I got the idea for this story while sitting on private property just off the monastery grounds in a farmer's field (on the other side of a broken barbed-wire fence).


End file.
